


Deliverance

by WrithingBeneathYou



Series: The Salt Mine [4]
Category: Naruto
Genre: (let's face it, Blind!Tobirama, Borrowing Alucard's power set, Hashirama has enough eyes for them both), Hellsing crossover, M/M, eldritch horror!Hashirama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-11 14:16:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19929436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WrithingBeneathYou/pseuds/WrithingBeneathYou
Summary: Hashirama's been chosen—chosen to protect his precious people with a gift of power as potent as it is divine.(Hellsing crossover)





	Deliverance

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prompt fill for the [2019 Naruto Rare Pair Bingo](https://naruto-rarepair-bingo.tumblr.com/) event taking place over on Tumblr. 
> 
> Board A, "crossover."

The first time Senju Hashirama dies, he’s ten years old.

Too-big armor is the only burial shroud he’s afforded for those long twenty minutes spent challenging the shinigami with no more than petulance and tears. It’s a hard fought battle of convictions, but ultimately the shinigami waves him off, laughing in its odd, multi-tonal cadence.

When he opens his eyes to the world again, Hashirama sees the tarrying Uchiha from a hundred different angles. The cheerful crackle of a fire illuminates their faces, split wide and grinning with their success as they share a kettle of tea amongst themselves. The smell of over-steeped genmaicha is bitter, and nowhere near as satisfying as the sharp tang of copper when he reaches out from the shadows and tears them apart.

Bursts of blood shower the leaf litter. A fine mist peppers his face as he leans into it. There’s no greater completion than the warm tackiness of it on his skin. He licks his lips and shudders through the artistry of it on his palate. Oh. Oh, this is _good_. Savory and satisfying in ways nothing has ever been before.

He chortles at his newfound vice with a borrowed voice and an amusement too ancient to be his own.

Death gets a wholly undeserved reputation as something to be feared, he thinks, eyes half-lidded in pleasure. Large swaths of shadow coalesce around him and whip languidly. It should be off-putting to watch himself watching himself, but the thousands of eyes embedded in his darkness are no different than those that comprise the shinigami itself.

He’s been chosen—chosen to protect his precious people with a gift of power as potent as it is divine.

Leaving the piles of gore to the foxes is easy. After all, child killers don’t deserve the honor of a burial. This war will be different now, he thinks. But, young as he is, he is still mindful of how power can be perceived—how it rides the knife-edge of sanctity and curse in the minds of men. They’ll see, though. In the end, they’ll all realize how blessed Hashirama is.

That night, he sprawls in the damp leaves and thinks of his mother. He smiles, picturing her solid build curled around Tobirama in his place, gently stoking white hair and whispering fantastical stories to stave off the worst of the nightmares.

His little brother has always been his to protect, but their mother is a decent surrogate for when he’s away on missions. It’s a decent compromise, but soon enough he’ll figure out how to be with Tobirama always. Then he won’t have to share. It’ll be his voice, or something similar, that will fill their evenings with the traditional tales of mokuton and selfless heroes, no matter where missives may take him.

Hashirama watches shadows flit across the moon and blinks as an idea suddenly takes root. This is how he can convince the clan of the virtue of his dreams and beliefs. It’s so easy. He’ll cloak his eldritch abilities in the trappings of a Sagely gift because, if he thinks about it, they are in a strange way. 

Wielding his powers like strangle-vine, he’ll effectively resurrect the mokuton. Then, the role of the savior will be his and he’ll use that clout to bring peace and tranquility to the clans, just like in their mother’s stories.

He, Senju Hashirama, will be the hero. 

The next week is spent traipsing about the Senju lands and studying how the trees’ roots throttle the ground, how their sturdy trunks rise up to swallow the sun. Emulating them is a different challenge altogether, but no less engaging. He never finishes his mission, but this takes precedence and he accepts his punishment with grace.

It takes him three years to get it right, and by then he’s died an additional four times and aged only because he wants to. With each passing, he comes back different.

A little more settled in his bones.

A little hungrier.

His teeth elongate and glint—reminiscent of the shinigami’s translucent maw—and he hungers for life just the same. The flesh beneath his cloak of sun-kissed skin stands out blacker than the night, so he never allows a wound to linger long enough to be seen.

Surely it’s another gift of the Sage—a fantastical healing ability that runs hand-in-hand with the mokuton. Trees are well known for their resilience to injury.

Of course, there’s no longer anyone living to decry his claims, honest though they may be.

He plays this same delicate game over the next twenty years, never revealing his true self except to the ones he sends on to be reborn as the Shinigami sees fit—the ones he devours. It’s better that way. Questions lead to inexplicable clan tragedies, and it only takes one mishap with a scouting party to learn that lesson well. He still allows himself the third eye on his forehead when he enters “Sage mode” on the battlefield, but otherwise, he thinks he does a fairly decent job of keeping his hubris in check.

Though, can it really be considered hubris when his hand falls with nothing but _righteousness_ —

Hashirama squawks in startlement as he’s abruptly torn from his reverie by a bucket of steaming water dumped directly on his head. The flood sluices down his face and chest, pulling his hair along with it.

Something inside of him roils and snorts, bemused as he sputters and waves about blindly.

Shaking his head, Tobirama leans forward to gently part the curtain of hair and pull it back behind his ears with the easy alacrity of experience. His hands continue to stroke Hashirama’s scalp and ease away the tension there as vapor wafts around them from the warm shower buckets.

“Welcome back, Anija,” he says dryly. “I don’t suppose you were deep in thought considering the contractual amendments for the Nara proposal?” The rising lilt of his voice frames it as a question, but Hashirama knows he’s been caught.

“Would you believe me if I said yes?” he asks as he shifts on his squat shower stool. It squeaks in sympathy, failing to deliver him from the chiding that’s sure to come. Maybe throwing his lap towel over his shoulder and making a run for it is in order. But, the fingers in his hair mollify his sheepish discomfort just enough for him to give in and accept his fate.

“Absolutely not.”

Surprisingly, Tobirama stops there. There’s no follow-up rejoinder, no churlish condemnation of Hashirama’s habitual inattention. Instead, he hums softly, taking up the long, heavy mantle of chestnut hair and sliding it over broad shoulders to gather in his own lap.

Hashirama’s brow furrows, but far be it for him to question small mercies.

“Well, then there we go!” he chirps, clapping wetly in emphasis.

Tobirama’s disquiet is quickly forgotten under the deep pressure of his thumbs digging into knots of tension Hashirama didn’t even realize he had. He moans and tips his head back, enjoying the attention while he marinates in the complete lack of responsibility.

These shared baths are an inspired idea. It typically takes no small amount of cajoling and ultimately a stern order to get Tobirama to join him for their impromptu family outings, but every time it’s well worth the trouble. His brother would work himself into the ground otherwise.

A little forcibly-imposed down time is good for him. 

Strong hands continue to knead his shoulders so expertly Hashirama melts, slumping further and further until he falls back against Tobirama’s chest. The soap residue between them makes things slippery. Even so, Tobirama easily accommodates for his weight and holds him close to keep them from tipping over. 

There’s a press of lips against his temple and Hashirama can’t help but smile warmly.

Things have been going exceedingly well in the village as of late—fiery tempers have been banked, the coffers are fat, and the voices of dissent have died down to no more than hushed whispers. Hashirama has watched it all happen with no small amount of pride.

Being able to luxuriate like this—knowing that the village is safe and quiet—is everything that he dreamed it would be. And it’s all the better for having his brother at his side. 

They sit like that for a comfortable stretch of time, so long Hashirama considers the merits of napping and turning into a prune. Prunes don’t have paperwork, or offices, or best friends away on missions. He thinks he might like it. Though, prunes also don’t get to have relaxing showers with tempura soon after.

Possibly some sake if his brother is in a good mood.

Tough decision.

“Hashirama,” Tobirama murmurs into his skin, oddly hesitant.

Hearing his full name said in private is enough to stave off thoughts of pickling himself in alcohol. Hashirama yawns hugely, humming in acknowledgment but otherwise refusing to give up his contented position. “Hmm?”

“I have a concern, but it may upset you,” Tobirama continues. The muted tone is a far cry from his typical briskness.

Hashirama blinks away his lethargy and eases up from his slouch. He inhales with the motion and forces out a breathy laugh, turning just enough to glance over his shoulder.

“Let me decide that! What’s on your mind, Otouto?” he asks cheerfully, even as a third and fourth eye open on his chest where only the tile wall is privy to them.

“Why do you always watch me?” Tobirama asks, hands never stilling as he draws meaningless shapes in the lather. 

Hashirama chokes. His extra eyes snap shut as he spins on the stool, hair swirling out around him and whipping water everywhere.

He had expected a claim maligning Madara or Izuna, something petty framed in the guise of ‘establishing appropriate infrastructure and power balance’. He wasn’t expecting to hear his brother sound so lost or be so vague with his meaning.

“Wah?” he grunts eloquently.

Tobirama frowns and steadies the precariously wobbling stool. He readjusts the towel on Hashirama’s lap to preserve his modesty—from who, Hashirama can’t say—and continues to toy with the hem.

Hashirama tenses under the soft brush of fingertips at the fold of his thigh and studies his brother’s sightless eyes, but says nothing more. Finally, Tobirama lets the edge fall with a muted slap.

“Your eyes follow me,” he begins slowly, “or at least I believe they are for vision. I sense them as voids in my chakra net, but the surrounding moisture gives them shape and focus vectors that are similar to your natural eyes. When I’m on missions, they look out from the trees and line my bedroll as I try to rest. It’s…disconcerting.”

The soft drip of water is the only answer proffered. Sighing, Tobirama takes up a pat of soap and proceeds to scrub through the layers of sweat and grime on his own chest.

“If you refuse to explain, that’s fine, but I ask that you at least tone down the surveillance. I find it difficult to sleep as it is, much less under such heavy focus,” he says, growing petulant at the lack of response.

This is so much worse than Hashirama expected.

So, so much worse.

A thickness rises in his throat and claws at his ribs from within. The lethargy burns away under the force of his restraint as he struggles to convince himself that this is okay. Tobirama is his brother, his blood. The question is innocent and he doesn’t really know what he’s saying.

Hashirama laughs, though it’s entirely forced and there’s no humor in it. “You’re imagining things, Otouto. I only have the two, same as you.”

Tobirama clucks his tongue as he reaches out to share the lather between them. Slick hands sweep down his brother’s sides and linger on his hips before confidently moving towards his thighs.

“No. You do not, not since we were children,” he points out.

And this is it, Hashirama thinks. This is what he’s been dreading for some time—the moment he has to choose between the future of Konohagakure and the man who has supported him so loyally throughout it all.

He can’t help but watch Tobirama stare straight-on ahead, not bothering to pretend to track with his eyes the way he would in public. It’s a show of trust that his most precious person only gives to him in these private moments. The display makes Hashirama’s stomach churn, knowing what he may have to do.

Though he loves his brother dearly, he values Konohagakure just as much.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says in a carefully flat tone that falls into a deadly silence.

There’s a wet slurping sound and a splash as Tobirama fumbles with the pat of soap.

“Damn.” Scoffing, he slips down off of his stool onto his knees and feels for where the pine tar soap escaped to. His hands sweep through the standing water. “You do,” he mutters distractedly, trying to concentrate on the unique chakric feel of sap and animal fats. “The darkness in you is seeping into your hair as we speak.”

Hashirama flinches when Tobirama’s hip brushes against his knee and he can’t help but to reach out and stroke along the indentation of his spine. There’s trust there.

“It just looks darker when it’s wet. You know that. And you should probably stop talking now,” he snaps, the threat obvious. Muscle bunches under his palm, but Tobirama doesn’t pull away. He sits back onto his heels. Forgoing the errant lump of soap, he turns—still kneeling under the weight of Hashirama’s touch—and rests his hand against a solid thigh.

Such blatant, open trust.

“Anija, I’m blind, not stupid. I can’t see the color of your hair. Regardless, I’ve known you were different since you first awakened this faux mokuton,” he points out, casually indicating the nightmare ichor burbling in Hashirama’s shadow.

No. That single word repeats over and over again in Hashirama’s head like a mantra, drowning out everything else. There’s no restraining the boiling vat of pitch as it suddenly tips and overflows from his mouth.

Without warning, chakra floods the room and makes the privacy wards groan beneath the strain.

“Shut-up, Tobirama!” he roars so loudly it reverberates. Pools of black tar pour forth from cracks in his burnished facade. They whip wildly and leave scores in the wall, like the claw marks of some great beast. Tobirama’s body presses closer to his leg, face hidden in the sodden towel to protect himself from a spray of shattered tile.

As if Hashirama wasn’t the epicenter of the threat.

Thousands of eyes peel open and blink from the wave of pitch around them, each one focusing intently on a single stretch of pale skin.

Somehow, the blazing danger inherent in his chakra and eldritch nature fail to cow Tobirama completely. It’s not surprising, but Hashirama wishes for once he would just fold. By the Sage, he doesn’t want to have to kill his last brother.

“It’s so dark,” Tobirama moans, inexplicably clutching at his ears. Even so, he refuses to forgo his place kneeling at Hashirama’s side. He bows close and anchors himself as if to ride out the storm of preternatural anger.

“I have always,” he hisses through clenched teeth, “ _always_ been able to sense the underlying nuances of chakra more strongly than others.” There’s a pause as he buries his face once again to avoid another explosion of tile.

“Stop,” Hashirama pleads, unheeded. With another release states unlocked, his voice seemingly falls from a dozen mouths.

“You know how sensitive I am by necessity,” Tobirama chokes out, clinging tighter. “It took you great effort in the beginning to make your constructs appear to be wood. Though, you’ve since grown to the point that now even I can’t tell them apart from the trees.”

Tears begin to join the dusting of water droplets on Hashirama’s cheek, gaining in size and flowing down to drip from his jaw.

“Please, stop talking.”

Tobirama tilts his chin up at the broken entreaty. Red, sightless eyes stare out over Hashirama’s shoulder, flicking towards his face only after he’s spoken. Still, the damning onslaught of words continues. 

“Your secrets are my own and I will take them to my grave. I am nothing if not loyal to you. I will always be yours first and foremost. You know this.” He shifts closer, flowing into Hashirama’s space more intimately than a brother should. “Please, Anija, I have never once strayed from your side. What have I done to make you doubt me?”

That takes Hashirama aback, makes the sharp spires of his darkness pause in their descent.

“Wait, what?” The oily sensation of anger recedes in increments.

“Why do you distrust me so much that you feel it necessary to constantly surveil me and not others?” Tobirama asks.

This isn’t the same situation as when the scouts confronted him over his blessed otherness—made it out to be a hallmark of evil. Tobirama is genuinely upset that he thinks he’s lost his brother’s trust. There is nothing but pain in the almost imperceptible slump of his shoulders. And maybe that’s enough to spare him.

Hashirama deflates.

“You’re my most precious person. I only watch you to keep you safe,” he answers simply, voice thick as his defenses falter.

An undulating tentacle rises from the floor and strokes its smooth length along Tobirama’s legs. Made slick by the heat of the shower, it slip-slides up his chest before descending down his arm and anchoring itself around his wrist. A swath of eyes opens along its length and blink blearily through the patina of moisture.

Though Tobirama doesn’t flinch, Hashirama can feel the stiffness settle in him, can see it play out from a thousand angles. Even so, his brother moves with the swath of darkness as it pulls him up to stand. Hashirama takes him by the hips with his hands and eases him down onto his lap.

Tobirama leans against him without needing to be coaxed, rests his head on a strong shoulder. If not for the direness of the situation, Hashirama would be beside himself with joy at being allowed to hold his typically stand-offish brother so tenderly. His easy capitulation is telling.

“Then I have not lost your regard?” Tobirama presses.

“No. No, Otouto. I love you so much. You’ll never lose me,” Hashirama replies, stroking the wet hair sticking to his neck. Still, a pulse of warning thrums through him like the resonation of a struck gong.

“But—”

He exhales—long and slow—and wraps his arms around the man he cares for most. The shinigami’s gift was bestowed upon him without constraints and has always been his to give in turn. Maybe just this once he can take a risk.

“I can’t let you tell anyone. I need you to keep this between us. Can you do that? I love you too much to lose you over something so silly as a little secret.” His words are punctuated by a squeal as those “silly little secrets” dig another line of gouges in the ceramic tile and sweep up to drag along the soles of Tobirama’s feet with far too many teeth.

“I have for twenty-three years. What makes you think circumstances have changed?”

In lieu of answering, Hashirama inhales deeply. It’s alright. Everything is going to be alright. He’s still the hero of this story and Tobirama has been his faithfully throughout. With a little creativity, they can both have what they want. 

“Do you trust me?” he asks, apropos of nothing.

“Implicitly,” Tobirama replies without hesitation. 

Hashirama releases control of the final state keeping his true self at bay. Nearly translucent eye-teeth elongate and his lips part when his Cheshire grin can’t contain them entirely. The human skin he crafted fades into a color so dark it absorbs the light and glows a sickly red along the edges.

“Tobi,” he croons in a hundred voices. “My sweet otouto. Your Anija is going to fix everything.”

Tobirama’s chakra never wavers once in its dedication to cataloging the new aspects of his body. Nor does he shy away from the massive eyes rolling and blinking under him.

This is it, Hashirama thinks. This is how he can truly protect what’s his—proaction as opposed to reaction.

He licks a line through the moisture gathered on Tobirama’s neck and notes the taste of salt beneath. Still, it fails to distract from the heady scent of blood pulsing so close, beckoning. When he meets nothing but easy acceptance, Hashirama groans and eases his fangs into that long, pale line of flesh.

It’s everything he could have imagined.

There isn’t the bitter tang of fear, no flailing death throes or curses screamed against his ear. Tobirama gives beautifully. His artery unfurls like the petals of a rain lily and floods Hashirama’s palate with the taste of autumn.

A hitched breath and he’s lost.

Hashirama sucks hard, clenches at Tobirama’s body even harder. The slick slide of bare flesh coupled with an already unnatural predilection for his brother has him rocking up against all of that smoothness.

Surprisingly, Tobirama meets him in kind.

With an uncharacteristic freneticism, Hashirama takes hold of the back of his neck and drives his fangs even deeper, scrabbling at every inch of skin he can reach to pull his brother in impossibly close. Every swallow is a connection more potent than any that they’ve shared before. 

Tobirama is his. His completely—to love, to protect, to share the root of his power. He wants to carve out a place for himself and settle beneath all of that warm, pale flesh.

After a moment to allow himself the pleasure of feeling his erection drag against the side of Tobirama’s thigh with only a wet towel between them, Hashirama pulls back. Blood courses down his jaw and rhythmically spurts across the largest of the eyeballs on his chest.

He pants, watching dim eyes roll back against a backdrop of even whiter pallor. And if there’s ever been a more beautiful sight, he can’t name it. 

Tobirama lies boneless in his arms, chest rising shallowly and lips parted. As often as Hashirama’s told himself not to think it, to bury his proclivities in sake and self-loathing instead, it’s surprisingly natural to curl lower and capture his brother’s lips in a kiss.

He flays his tongue wide open on a fang and feeds the darkness into Tobirama’s mouth.

The reaction is instantaneous. Tobirama gasps as if his lungs have never known air and takes the black blood in with a wet gurgle. Strong arms wrap around Hashirama’s neck as Tobirama drives into him and chases the taste, preternaturally strong. They slam against the floor hard enough to make the water splash and crest over their writhing bodies.

Tobirama straddles the mass of darkness that he suspects is Hashirama’s hips, deepening the kiss without any thought to propriety or shame. But, his new-found fervor pales in comparison to the eldritch need to consume and claim spilling from Hashirama’s soul.

As if his brother’s obvious acceptance is a release state in and of itself, Hashirama rolls them over and claims his brother in all the ways that matter.

The first time Senju Tobirama dies, he’s twenty-nine years old.

**Author's Note:**

>  _whispers_ I have no idea why I wrote this.


End file.
